


Casting a Murder

by ConstancePenman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hawke's first name is Marian, Leandra Hawke Dies, Modern AU, Murder Mystery AU, Someone is a murderer, Varric is a novelist, tw: a whole lot of blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstancePenman/pseuds/ConstancePenman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric Tethras, a semi-successful fiction writer who mostly ends up writing about friends he no longer has, has lost his muse. She returns in the form of a serial killer dubbed "Amell." Marian Hawke, a pharmacist who entertains herself by playing Wicked Grace with her merry band of misfits, finds herself with little family left besides her mother. The two meet and, with surprisingly little effort, Varric is absorbed into Hawke's friend group. Still, everyone has something to feel guilty about, some more than others.</p><p>ON HIATUS<br/>I've neglected this story for a while, so I'm officially putting it on hiatus to focus. I have made a ton of edits, both to the previous chapters and the overarching plot, and, honestly, I'm a lot more invested in the story now (there was absolutely no mystery before). If you're checking back, a) thank you! b) you're welcome to read the edits now or wait until I add the next chapter, just make sure you do read them. A lot has changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Typewriters Are Not Abused and Aveline is the Long Suffering Mom Friend

Varric glared at the computer monitor in front of him as if a long-term exposure to his narrowed gaze would force words to appear behind the flickering cursor. It was no good. He'd encountered writer's block before, but it could usually be conquered by a different view and a change of format.

Well, here he was: in his brother's apartment with their family typewriter sitting behind him and an empty notebook to his right. Still, his fingers weren't experiencing that exhilarating flight over a page or keyboard.

He drew in a sharp breath and spun in his chair over to the typewriter. Without slowing to make sure his spelling was correct, he wrote, "Once upon a time--" then, as quickly as he wrote it, he ripped the page out of the machine.

"Are you abusing grand-father's typewriter in there?" called Bartrand from the other room, having heard the sound with his super-hearing. "It's from being a big brother," he would claim whenever Varric complained.

"Nah, you're just sensitive."

"So is the typewriter."

Varric consciously kept himself from rolling his eyes. Bartrand should have been a curator and they both knew it. He was fiercely overprotective of the physical manifestations of their family history, comparatively new typewriter included.

"Do you want me to take it in there so you can cuddle with it?"

The author patiently waited for a reply and never received one. He smiled and turned to the notebook.

"Bernard wasn't a good brother," he wrote, then added, "In fact, he was such a shitty brother that his name was Bartrand and goddamnit can I write anything that's not about real people I'm going to get sued someday." He then ripped the paper out of the notebook and shredded it by hand.

"If that was the typewriter again, I'm going to--"

"It was the notebook I got at a gas station. Be quiet, I'm trying to write."

Speaking of... Varric thought as he turned to the laptop. He let his hands hover over the keyboard for what could only have been a moment but felt like an eternity before finally giving up and hammering out, "It's a universally acknowledged truth--" he deleted it and retyped, "It's a truth universally acknowledged--" again, "A universally acknowledged truth is--"

"Gah!" he exclaimed, pushing himself away from the computer and, consequently, into the typewriter. He steadied the table upon which it lay. _I can't even steal right._

Bartrand knocked on the locked door, saying, "That's it. I don't trust you with the typewriter anymore."

Varric couldn't restrain his eye roll--he felt like a petulant teenager, but there wasn't much he could do about it now--as he got up to unlock the door.

"Yes, brother dearest?"

"If you're going to abuse delicate machinery," he started, marching past Varric over to his three-desk setup, "it better be worth it." He checked the typewriter, the notebook, and the computer for any work produced after the three hours Varric had locked himself in the makeshift office. "'A universally acknowledged truth is...' Varric, if you're going to plagiarize," he deleted Varric's sentence and re-typed it, "at least do it right."

Bartrand then walked back over to the door, turned back around, picked up the typewriter, and left.

Varric waited a second, then went over to see what he'd written. Beneath the immaculately quoted Jane Austen--of course Bartrand would have that quote memorized--was the simple sentence, "Look up Amell, asshole."

Interest piqued, Varric turned back on his internet access and followed Bartrand's instructions. The first headline read, "SERIAL KILLER DUBBED 'AMELL' AFTER MYSTERIOUS..." it trailed off. He clicked to read the rest. "APPEARANCE OF FAMILY SYMBOL," it finished.

The article ended up being no help at all--nothing more than a tabloid. However, after reading some different ones, Varric found himself entranced with these "Amell" murders. All discovered bodies had belonged to either notorious criminals who continuously remained one step ahead of the law or nobodies who, upon further investigation, weren't as innocent as previously assumed.

Varric closed the tab to see the empty word document again. He pursed his lips, trying to think of the words he would need. It wasn't long before his hands were flying across the keyboard.

 _Bartrand may be a shitty brother,_ thought Varric in the midst of his authorial trance, _but he knows what helps._

Sooner than he would have liked, Varric hit that roadblock again. He needed to know more about the Amell killings, and he knew just the person to help. He closed his laptop and grabbed it and his notebook. He dashed out the apartment door, yanking his coat off the rack on the way.

"Thanks!" he said as a goodbye.

"Welcome," Bartrand muttered.

.

Varric knocked on the door frame of the Captain of Kirkwall's police force. She looked up and groaned. 

"Varric, what are you doing here? How do you keep getting in?" 

"I have fans, Aveline," he reminded her as he sat without invitation. 

"Right," she scoffed, straightening some papers, "Is that what you call people you aggravate until they surrender?" 

"Don't be jealous of my fame." 

"You're not famous, you have a cult." 

"A cult _following_ , Captain." 

"Well, your 'cult following' certainly acts like a cult." 

Varric had first met the police Captain when she had tried to bust his "cult's" gambling ring back in the days when she wasn't Captain. In reality, it had been Varric's gambling ring. She had failed the bust, setting her career back a bit, but she still became Captain soon after. 

"Well, Captain," he started, only vaguely mocking her title, "while your insults certainly are insulting, I'm afraid I'm here on business." 

"For the last time," she slapped a manila folder on her desk, "I am not getting you ownership of the Hanged Man." 

"And that's not what I came here for, so this works out perfectly." 

Aveline raised an eyebrow, gazing at him skeptically. "I'm not giving you my confidential information either." 

It was then that someone's head poked into Aveline's office, saying, "Did someone say 'confidential information?'" 

"Yeah, but it was proceeded by a 'not giving you any,'" Varric answered as he turned to look at the stranger. The first thing he noticed were her bight blue eyes. Before he knew it, Varric had composed at least a paragraph about this mysterious figure. 

"Ah, those phrases always go together." 

"Hawke," started Aveline, a stern tone to her voice, "what are you doing here?" 

"Hawke" apparently took this as an invitation and entered the room, sitting on the desk to annoy Aveline. 

"Aren't you happy to see me?" 

"I'm sorry if I'm not jumping for joy after last time." 

"Well this sounds like quite the story," Varric said, interrupting the flow of their banter. 

"It is," answered Aveline, "And you're never going to hear it." 

"Can you at least introduce me?" he asked. 

Aveline glared at him for a bit before saying, "Varric, this is Marian Hawke. Hawke, Varric Tethras." 

"Varric," Hawke pronounced, giving him her hand to shake. "Mind telling me why that sounds familiar?" 

"I write. Maybe you've read something of mine?" He took her hand, unsurprised by the strength of her grip. 

"You know what? You were that guy with the Wicked Grace game going on in the Hanged Man the other night. Corff was complaining about how you'd cheated him out of at least five beers. 

Varric chuckled. "Good to know I still have a good reputation." 

"Spotless, I'm sure." 

"As happy as I am the two main sources of my irritation have met," Aveline interrupted, "I have to ask, what are you doing here?" 

Varric, confused, asked, "Me or her?" 

"Either," answered Aveline. Then, before they could say anything, "Preferably one at a time." 

"Well," Varric started, "I uh... came across a couple news articles about this killer. Amell? I was wondering if I could borrow some files." 

Aveline glared at him for a moment, weighing the amount of "persuasion" she could take today. Apparently finding that that number was very low, she sighed, leaned down to a file cabinet next to her desk, and handed him five manila folders. 

"You are giving those back no more than two weeks from now. We have copies, but I'd prefer if I wasn't constantly concerned about whether they were still in your possession or in some ignorant thief's." She turned to Hawke.  "And what do you want?" 

"Luckily for you," Hawke started, tossing a severely disorganized folder onto her desk, "I've come to return rather than borrow."

"Followers of She?"

"You bet."

"Get the information you were looking for?" she asked, already rearranging the contents of the file.

"Sure did."

"Anything useful to me?"

"Mmm can't say so, no."

The folder back in its rightful place, Aveline placed her clasped hands on top of the desk. "Are you going to tell me why you needed it now?" 

"Um." Hawke chuckled. "No?" 

The captain raised an eyebrow that answered a clear "no." 

"Personal reasons? My brother's a member?" 

"Your brother's in military academy." 

"Damn your detecting skills." Hawke laughed (she seemed to do that a lot), then said, "Oh, I just got a suspicious order from them. I can tell a forged signature after all these years." 

"You got an order from the Followers of She." 

"Yeah." 

"All of them?" 

"Oh, no. Just this one guy who's supposed to be an upper member." 

Aveline glared at her a bit longer before giving in and saying, "Okay, sure. At least you returned the file this time."

"Have I ever failed you, Aveline?" Hawke winked. Aveline remained unfazed. 

"If you decide you did find useful information of them, tell me. We need to get these guys in. Their leader's committed a number of crimes already from petty theft to murder, but we can't pin anything on him." 

"Yes sir, Captain," Hawke replied, executing a salute. She hopped off the desk and headed for the doorway. She then turned towards Varric and said, "You know, I’m pretty good at Wicked Grace myself. I usually play with my friends on Saturdays. Care to join us?" 

Varric gave it a half-second of thought. Here was a strange girl, one who seemed to know something or at least be curious about Amell, asking him to a game of Wicked Grace. 

 _Dear God,_  Varric thought, _is this how normal people make friends?_  

"Sure," he said. "Sounds fun." 

"See you there," Hawke said, a wide grin on her face, and left. 

"And now they're friends," complained Aveline to deaf ears as Varric watched the ease of Hawke's stride as she walked. "Perfect. Just perfect." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'll end up being around five chapters, all about as long as the one above. I hope you'll stick around to read them, and thanks for reading this one!


	2. In Which the Best Hangover Cure is a Psychoanalysis

It quickly became a tradition for Varric to join Hawke's group of friends in their weekly game of Wicked Grace. He wasn't sure if tradition was the right word, as he phrased it in his head. Perhaps it would be better to say that he joined their tradition--became a part of it. Perhaps he should stop composing words in his head as if his own life was a tale for him to tell.  

"You're writing about Amell, right?" asked Aveline, startling Varric. 

"Yeah?" 

"Perhaps it would interest you to know that he killed again the other night." 

"'He?'" questioned Anders. 

"I mean, he or she. I don't know, that's just how we refer to them in the office Anyway, it's not that he--or she-- killed again." 

Merrill nodded, putting down a snake card. "He is a serial killer." 

"The interesting part is _who_ h... they killed." 

"And?" prodded Fenris. "Who was it?" 

Aveline smiled. This was a rare occurrence, particularly when discussing work, but it was a welcome one. "The leader of the Followers of She." 

"Amell killed She?" asked Corff, the bartender who happened to refreshing their beer. 

"No, 'She' is a religious figure for them. They're more a cult than a gang," Merrill said.  

Varric had been slightly surprised when he first discovered how much Merrill knew about gang culture. Once he found out where she lived and the sorts people she was consistently surrounded with, he was no longer surprised. 

"Right," Aveline confirmed. "Amell didn't kill She, Amell killed Lethe." 

"Lethe," Varric repeated. "Like the river?" 

"That wasn't his real name, obviously," Aveline said, keeping a close eye on Isabela's hand as she reorganized it. No extra cards this time. None that Varric could see, anyway. "It was just what they called him. No idea why." 

Merrill smiled and added, "The Followers of She followed Greek mythology pretty closely. Some of their hits could be linked to it. Did you not figure that out?" 

Isabela grinned at her, saying, "Very smart, Kitten. Better than the police apparently." 

Aveline glared. She often glared, and when she did, it was most likely at Isabela. Isabela rather enjoyed messing with the Captain. Varric personally thought it was a mixture of a contrived attempt at flirtation and an envy of the title. Isabela had previously been a Captain as well, although of a different kind. She often spoke of how she missed the sea, but Varric suspected she missed the respect of the crew that came with it as well, perhaps more. 

"Anyway," said Aveline with a growl in her voice to rival a bear, "the point is, Amell just took down an incredibly powerful figure. They have to be weakened. Besides, they've now killed the two highest members. The rest are going to be after them." 

"But what about the whole 'kill the queen bee and the rest will disperse' thing?" asked Hawke.  

"What? Do you think they'd just disappear because their leaders were killed? No. They'll be after them." Aveline grinned as she put down her five angels (did she cheat without Varric noticing? Was she just that lucky? Maybe fate did prefer the honest). "And we'll just have to catch them first. Who knows? Maybe they'll come to us." 

Hawke cleared her throat as she put down her cards. Two snakes, the rest miss-matched. "Maybe," she said, focusing on the discard deck rather than anyone's face. 

Varric laid down his two knights and three daggers. He carefully watched Hawke's face, trying to discern what was wrong. She was never this subdued, even when she did lose by a landslide. If anything, that only made her more boisterous. Hawke wasn't the strong and silent type.  

"Did you cheat, big girl?" Isabela asked, distracting the conversation.

It was an unspoken rule among them and most groups of Wicked Grace players that, after the game was over (and occasionally during), if one player asked another if they were cheating, the other player can speak only the truth. 

Aveline met Isabela's gaze and said, calm and proud, "Not at all." 

After a few more hours of play and at least one of getting Corff to let them stay past closing time (both succeeding and failing at once), Varric stumbled up the stairs of The Hanged Man to his apartment. He stretched and collapsed onto his bed, happy to fall asleep at this hour of night. However, after what felt like far too long attempting to sink into his favorite oblivion (his second favorite being a drunken stupor, which he was also quite close to achieving) he gave up and rolled off the bed onto the soft rug. He groaned and stood, then looked around for something to occupy his tired mind. His eye caught the dark silhouette of his laptop and he was reminded of his story.  After the discussion with Aveline, he could not only put pronouns to the name, but he also had a murder to write about: Lethe’s. 

He went over to the computer, almost falling over his own feet on the way, and turned on the laptop. He wrote that night. He wrote of Lethe, yes, but mostly he wrote of Amell and how he imagined his version. She was a woman, not quite middle age. Dark hair, he thought. And blue eyes. Not soft blue or the blue of a southern belle, but a piercing blue that could speak of death as well as life. His Amell, or Crowe as he quickly made up so as to eschew any promise of accuracy, was tall, six feet of quick legs and strong core. She was powerful and certain and— 

It was three in the morning when he realized that he was describing Marian Hawke. 

“Shit,” he murmured into the noises of a night at the Hanged Man. 

He was too invested in this description of Amell to change it now, but surely Hawke wouldn’t be too pleased to know that when he thought “serial killer” he apparently thought of her: the least malicious pharmacist he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.  

Varric fell off his stool, his head landing roughly on the floor. He took a sharp breath in in response to the pain and discovered how very tired he was. Still, when he got back into bed, he tossed and turned until he realized there was no way he was getting any sleep that night. 

He stumbled downstairs, still fairly drunk from earlier that night, and practically fell through the door on his way out. The night air was chilly (he refused to think of 3 a.m. as the morning), but it felt nice to breathe in the crisp, clean air. 

The Hanged Man wasn't exactly in the "nice" or "safe" part of town, and Varric was reminded of this every time he went for a nighttime walk, which, admittedly, was not often. It wasn't like he got mugged or anything, but there was always a sense of unease in the air as though something bad were about to happen.

Occasionally, it did. 

"Hey, jackass," said a voice from behind him. "Give me your wallet. Now." 

Varric turned his head just enough to see the glint of a knife raised threateningly towards him. 

"Are you robbing me?" Varric murmured, his words sliding over each other, just loud enough for the thief to hear. "That's probably not a good idea." 

"Oh yeah?" He spotted a bit of movement that he hoped was the mugger shifting uncomfortably.  "Why's that?" 

Varric, fingers crossed that the guy was at least a little intimidated, turned his head so as to meet the thief's gaze. 

"Because," he put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and wrapped his fingers around rounded edges, "I often carry a gun."

The thief backed up a couple steps, then ran. Now that Varric could look at him, it was clear that he was really just a kid. No older than seventeen. 

Varric pulled out the tic-tac box he'd grabbed and popped a couple into his mouth. Sure he had a gun—a beautiful shotgun he'd named Bianca after its creator—but he rarely carried it around with him. That would be both unwieldy and dangerous. 

After thirty more peaceful minutes of walking, Varric decided to go home and pray his insomnia would grant him mercy. He didn't have to worry though, as when he hit the bed, he finally fell into a deep sleep. 

.

Varric was woken to the harsh sound of his phone ringing and vibrating on the desk next to his bed. In the fog of his mind, he was vaguely surprised that it had any battery left, as he was sure he hadn't plugged it in the night before. Either way, his hand groped its way over to the phone and dragged up the "accept" button (three times before it accepted to motion; god his phone was a piece of shit). 

"Yeah?" He mumbled half-heartedly. 

"Varric, where the hell are you?" 

"Aveline? I'm uh..." He burrowed his eyebrows and opened his eyes just enough to see the time: one thirty in the afternoon. "I'm in bed?" 

Aveline let out an uncharacteristic string of curses. Finally, she hissed, "Get over here right now." 

"Over where? And can you please be more--" 

"The coffee shop! To meet Donnic!" 

"Quiet?" he finished. "Uh... what is this about Donnic? And um. Who's Donnic?" 

Aveline groaned. "Do you really not remember at all? You asked me for a psycho analysis on Amell, I told you that that's up to the detective in charge of the case and that I would try to set up an interview with him. I called you to let you know the time and place _two hours ago_. You said you'd be here!" 

"I did?" 

"I've been waiting here with him for half an hour. Half an hour, Varric! I'm making this call from the bathroom!" 

"Jeez," he sat up and ran a hand through his hair, "Isn't this guy your employee? Why are you so worked about hanging out with him for thirty minutes?" 

"I—well—It's—" she stuttered before settling on, "It's rude! To keep someone waiting for so long." 

Varric sighed. "Right. 'Rude.' If I didn't know better, I'd say you have a crush on this guy." 

More stammering. Varric couldn't help but smirk a bit. Even the police captain could have a school girl crush. 

"Where are you?" 

"We’re at the Orlesian Brew in the Gallows.” 

He stood and stretched out, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. "I'll be there in ten." 

"You better be," she said before hanging up. 

.

Varric pushed open the door and did his best to minimize his wince at the tinkling bells that might as well have been a fire alarm for all his delicate ears were concerned. He was not a lightweight by any means, but when Varric drank he always had a killer headache the next day. 

"Varric!" Aveline called out when she spotted him. He glanced around the shop and saw Aveline glaring at him from a booth. On the side opposite her, he could just make out the top of a thick head of wavy brown hair.  

He waved back and made his way over. 

"Hello, Varric," greeted Donnic, reaching out a hand. 

Varric grasped it and smiled. "Detective Donnic, I assume? Nice to meet you." 

"Likewise. I hear you're writing about Amell?" 

Varric slipped in next to Aveline and nodded. "Yeah. I'm just having some trouble getting her voice right in my head." 

"And that's what I'm here for."  

Donnic reached into a messenger bag sitting beside him and pulled out a folder. He put it on the table and slid it over.

"That's the psychoanalysis on him. We're not actually certain it is a he, by the way. That's just how we refer to Amell in the office. Amell's kills are very... separate from him. He never actually touches them, that may just be his style or we could infer a lack of strength or some other weakness. Then of course, there's the symbol. And—well, you probably guessed this, but it's not the victim's blood he paints it with. So..." 

"It's his," Varric finished, opening the file to flip through it. 

"Right. Now, he's not stupid enough to leave it untouched. Otherwise we would have caught him already. He adulterated it one way or another, but it's still his. And uh... the Amells have a pretty intricate symbol. He's given a lot of blood over the course of all his kills to make it look right. So we know he has no issues with his blood, which narrows it done to some extent. Since he's using his own blood to draw the family symbol, we can assume that Amell is... well, an Amell." 

"The Amells were a respectable family," Varric said, "This isn't a 'my whole family's made up of criminals so might as well be one' thing." 

"Right. So, we're thinking the opposite." 

"'My whole family's made up of _saints_ so might as well be a criminal?'" 

Donnic laughed. "We thought more 'my whole family's made up of saints so I should be one too.'" 

"And in his attempt to be a saint he... murders people."

"He murders _criminals_."

Varric smiled. "Okay, yeah. That makes sense. This isn't just some fucked up form of justice, this is living up to his ancestors." 

"Well of course we can't be certain about anything, but uh... that's what we've got so far." 

Donnic leaned back in his chair and took a deep gulp of coffee. He checked his watch.

"Hey, I've got to get going. You keep those files. Once you're done with them, just give them to the Captain. It was nice to meet you." 

Varric stood to shake his hand. "You too." 

Once Donnic had left, Varric leaned in closer to Aveline. "'The Captain,'" he teased, stretching his words until they were overly seductive.

"Oh, shut up."


	3. In Which Alcohol is Consumed

Guilt.

        Family.

                  Murder.

                              Blood.

                                         Blood.

 **Blood**.

Varric was deep into his authorial trance—those files had helped more than he could have imagined—when he was startled by a knock on the door. It was two in the morning, and it wasn't like he had a multitude of friends who would just stop by at two in the morning, so he was expecting one or three of Hawke's crew. What he wasn't expecting was Hawke herself, eyes swollen red from crying, hand gripped around a bottle of vodka like a lifeline.

"Hey," she started, voice hoarse, "You free?"

He nodded and moved out of the way so she could enter.

"Sorry, the place is a bit of a mess."

"Don't worry about it. I'm uh... I'm used to messy."

She was still sniffling a bit, and Varric was consumed with the need to hug her and not let go until she'd forgotten whatever it was that had gotten her like this. Instead, he pushed some of the papers that littered the floor (newspapers—like a bird cage) out of the way. He sat and gestured for her to join him.

"No chairs?"

"Don't tell me you're a chair person."

She let out a choked laugh and sat opposite him. Her shaking hands fumbled with the top, but she managed to twist it off.

"So. What's the occasion?" He asked as she took a gulp before passing it to him.

"Uh."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, it's fine. I um... So you know how Carver went into battle last week?"

"Yeah. He was so excited he looked like your dog?" he answered, remembering her description.

"Right. He uh... he died. Yesterday."

Varric stopped mid sip.

"Seriously? What, a week in?"

She nodded.

"Jesus."

He handed the bottle back to her, and she downed the cheap vodka gratefully.

"Hawke, I'm so sorry."

"Eh. I'm used to it."

"What?"

She shrugged. "Dad died when I was twenty. Bethany went three years later."

"Who's Bethany?" Varric asked carefully, his voice soft and too steady to make it a question.

"My sister. We were close. Closer than me and Carver, anyway. He... never quite agreed with the stuff I did. Carver was—not to speak ill of the dead or whatever, but Carver was kind of a dick."

"What happened? To… Bethany?"

"Murdered. Beth was murdered." She took a swig of vodka. "It didn't even mean anything. She just… happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was drunk. Angry. In a big truck, 'couldn't see her.' He got charged with man-slaughter." Marian grimaced at the phrase. "We got some shitty idea of justice for Bethany, and now we have a flag for Carver. A corrupt-ass system and a goddamn shelf ornament."

Varric gave in and leaned forward to embrace her the best he could with the vodka bottle tight in her grasp.

"It's just me and Leandra," she whispered into his neck, "And she blames me—I know she blames me because she looks at me like I killed her daughter—her son. Like I killed them, not like I lost them. And she told me—she told me I wasn't a—I wasn't living up to our family, to our name."

"Sh, shh, it's okay, you're okay."

"And the house is so goddamn quiet and it doesn't even make sense because it's not like there's less people in the house it's only been Leandra and me for so long but now Carver's gone and we can't talk anymore and—"

"Hey, hey, you're okay, shh, you're okay."

They sat there for a while, Hawke shaking and shuddering, Varric stroking her back, and the half drunk vodka bottle forgotten between them. He didn't mind. He would have gladly sat there with her all night.

Finally, she pulled away, wiping her wet face with her long red sleeve.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "God, we've been friends for a month and I’m already spilling my mommy issues."

"I have brother issues. Wanna trade?"

She gave a strangled laugh, tried to stand, and fell under her tired legs.

"Hey, it's really late. You can just… stay here, if you want."

"I don't know. Do you have a couch under all this paper?"

"I'm sure I can find one, but you're sleeping on the bed."

"Ugh, can we not do this? This is your apartment. I'm sleeping on the couch."

"You're my guest. You're sleeping on the bed." He stood, then helped her up, a simple task made difficult by their dramatic difference in size. "Besides," he continued, "I'm probably going to be up writing all night only to crash at 8 a. m. _On the couch._ "

Hawke groaned, but followed his pointed finger to the bedroom, leaving the vodka with him. While contemplating what he should do with it, he heard a loud gasp from the other room. 

Just as he was about to run in to see if something was wrong, he heard a cry of "This room looks like it's owned by an actual person!"

Varric smiled. It seemed like Hawke was feeling better. That was what mattered.

He turned to his computer and thought of his book, his Amell, his Crowe. He thought about trying to write again, but decided he'd had his fill of family and blood. Instead, he fell to the couch and, ignoring the crinkling paper and gnawing sensation of guilt in his stomach, went to sleep.

.

Being an author, Varric perhaps started his days with a cold glass of beer (or whatever one could call the alcohol the Hanged Man served) a tad too often. Since beginning his latest novel, he'd been waking up too late to be able to drink without the kind of people around who would push their own mistakes onto him and judge. This morning, it seemed, he was falling back into his old habits. It was a bit different, however, in that he was not drinking alone.

“Varric?” Aveline began, sounding almost angry, from her place beside him. 

Their meeting had not been planned. In fact, Varric had come down that morning with the intention of walking straight out the door, maybe going up to Hightown to watch and/or mock the rich. First, however, he'd decided to get a drink. As soon as his ass had touched the barstool, Aveline had sat quietly beside him and ordered the same for herself.

“Woah there," he said now, "there was quite a lot of captain in that tone!”

“What do you want me to do? Coo in your ear?”

Varric laughed. “Could you blame me if I did?”

“Just… Follow me?”

Varric slid off his stool to do as he was told, pushing the required cash toward Corff and following Aveline outside. She leaned against the brick wall and bit her lip.

“Varric, I'm worried.”

“So am I. Global warming’s a bitch.”

"No, it's not--" She sighed. "It's Amell. I'm... Worried. About him."

"You're worried."

"Yes."

"About Amell."

"Yes."

"You do know he's a serial killer, right?"

" _Varric_ ," she glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening; there was a man in the corner within hearing range, but Aveline deemed him too drunk to notice. "I need you to look at a crime scene for me."

"Hey, I'm flattered, but you're the police officer between us."

"It's not about that, it's... You've dove into his life, even if there are some embellishments. I need to know that he's... This is important is all."

Varric searched her face, trying to discern any deeper reason than what she was telling him. Finally, he gave up and nodded.

"Sure. I'll look at it."

"Thank you. And, please don't tell Donnic about this. He brought me in to look, so..."

"You don't want him to know you brought me in?"

She nodded; Varric smiled.

"Can do. Now, where are we going?"

.

"This is a first," Varric said, stepping out of the car.

"You've never been to a crime scene before?"

"Can't say I've had that particular pleasure, no."

"There's a first time for everything. Hope you're not too squeamish about blood."

He wasn't. Or, at least, he didn't think he was. However, stepping out to the overwhelmingly metallic scent was disarming to say the least. He'd seen a lot of pictures of Amell's work. He'd seen the untouched bodies, the intricate family crest painted in blood. But seeing it, smelling it, almost tasting iron on his tongue, was entirely different.

He swayed slightly, but otherwise managed to keep his composure.

"It's over here," said Aveline, walking around the chalk outline where a body used to be, a man handing both of them a pair of gloves along the way.

When she stopped, she stood still looking at a pool of dried blood where the Amell crest should have been. Once he joined her, she gestured to a bit of the blood that seemed to be raised up from the rest. Slipping a gloved finger under the tab, Varric lifted just enough to see what the pool of red was hiding.

"A stencil?"

"How did you think he got the lines so perfect?"

He shrugged. Upon Aveline's admonishing glare, he added, "It added to his mystique."

"Look, that's not the important bit. What's wrong with this picture?"

Varric stood back up, looking at the pool of flaking red-brown. He looked at Aveline.

"He left the stencil behind?"

"He left the stencil covered in blood," she corrected. "Amell usually paints the blood over the stencil. This looks like it was poured on, like he didn't care if he wasted it."

"It is a lot of blood." He sighed. "So, what. Do you think he's planning on quitting? Having a mental break?"

"I'm concerned either way. If he stops--of course no more people would die at his hand, but the trail might go cold. And if he is having a 'mental break' as you so kindly put it..." Aveline crossed her arms, eyebrows furrowed as she stared at the blood covered stencil. "Then I'm more worried than ever."

"Oh yeah? Worried for a serial killer?"

"Worried about a serial killer, Varric. If things keep up like this, him throwing caution to the wind? He could get a lot more dangerous."

Varric remained vaguely suspicious of this explanation, but decided to go with it. If the police captain was worried for--or about--Amell, he was sure she had a reason.

"Okay, well, I think I've had enough blood for today. Wanna head back to the bar?"

"I think I'm going back to the office. I'll drop you off, it's on the way."

He headed to the car, but he couldn't get the smell of blood out of his head. He turned back to look at the pool of dried blood and sighed, admitting to himself that he was a bit concerned too. Worrying.

He slid through the door and clicked in his seat belt. This would give him something to write about.


End file.
